Passione Celeste

by Mark Pritchard

  Gradually I got closer and closer to The Edge. No, not Bono’s mate. I’m talking about the Lincoln Edge, also sometimes known as the Lincoln Cliff. This is an escarpment that runs north‒south through the middle of Lincolnshire overlooking the River Trent valley. I got right up to the Cliff’s edge (haha) before turning north to ride along it for a few miles. I was hoping to find the road we used to use for club hill climb time trials, but my memory failed me so eventually I just took a random left turn and headed down the steep drop to the Trent valley. Then I rode on to Thorpe on the Hill (see, I told you so) before heading around the west side of Lincoln.

  Another road sign caught my eye so I made a slight detour to visit Jerusalem. From there I headed over to Saxilby where I stopped to refuel before turning east and riding up the Edge. Then it was an easy spin across to Market Rasen, where I worked for six months, before turning south to head back to Horncastle. One final bit of business on the way home involved a visit to New York for the obligatory photo. Jerusalem and New York in a few hours: wow! I must be getting fast.

  There you have it, a day of hill climbing training. What’s that? How many feet did I ascend? You don’t think I’m going to give out my training secrets, do you? I’m certainly not. But what I can say is that I’ve now been able to add a sixth category to the hill climbs classification scale. Sous Category or Under Category. And I’m all made up by that.

  Thursday 8 September 2016, 108 Miles

  A Splendidly Sunny Shingle Street Spin (C#38)

  Well, after my day in Lincolnshire and the recent excursion to north Norfolk I was back on familiar roads today. I’ve noticed that if I don’t get over to Orford about once a month my bikes get a bit uppity. So in order to maintain calm in the bike shed it was an Orford day. This would be the sixth visit this year.

  I awoke to some splendid sunshine and after downing my breakfast was on the road by 8am. As it was likely to be a hot one today, I passed on my usual riding fuel of porridge and opted for some whole grain cereal with fruit instead. I figured this would keep me going until I arrived in Orford. I made excellent progress, aided by a light tailwind, through Debenham to Woodbridge. Ascending the small rise to Sutton Hoo I caught up with another rider and we had a brief chat for a while before parting company.

  To ring the changes, I decided that today I wouldn’t go down to Bawdsey Ferry. Instead I thought I would go and have a look at Shingle Street. So when I reached Hollesley I turned coastwards down a narrow lane and across some salt marshes, soon reaching my goal. The small hamlet of Shingle Street sits on an exposed bit of the coastline and I reckon that it could be quite an exhilarating place in winter if there was an easterly gale blowing. And in those conditions, probably not the place to be with a bike. Today, it was blue skies, shimmering sunshine and a hot wind blowing inland. And it was quite busy too: lots of twitchers lurking with their massive telescopes and other paraphernalia.

  Over the years Shingle Street has achieved a certain notoriety, especially amongst conspiracy theorists. The speculation has been fuelled by the withholding of certain classified government documents many years after they would normally have been put in the public domain. In a nutshell, the claim is that in 1940 German forces attempted to land on the coast here and were defeated. Reports abound of burnt and charred bodies in uniform washing up on the coast for some days afterwards. Estimates of the numbers vary considerably, with some stories describing a mass grave being dug on the beach or further inland. Well, whatever the truth, whole books have been written on the subject and the Interweb is full of speculation. Giggle it if you want to know more.

  Did I mention that in December 1980, aliens landed just up the road in Rendlesham Forest? No? Well, that’s more Giggle time if you’re really that interested. And on a more down-to-earth note, there is a rather splendid Martello Tower here which can be rented out as a holiday cottage.

  Anyway, be that as it may, it was time to head over to Orford and the Pump Street Bakery to satisfy the Infinito’s doughnut cravings. I must tell you that my little diversion to Shingle Street was met with some scorn by the Infinito, which thought that I was being deliberately difficult and keeping it from its desires. Anyway, order was soon restored and we set off homewards.

  The ride back was completely uneventful. But what I did notice was the strength of the wind. It does seem to me that 2016 has been a windy year. Nothing too fierce, apart from the usual storms and gales. But virtually every day I’ve ridden it seems that there has been a constant blow. In today’s warm temperatures it was like riding in Suffolk’s version of the Mistral. And when it’s in your face it does take the edge off the enjoyment of the ride. Of course, given the speculation about Shingle Street and the Rendlesham aliens, I couldn’t help wondering if the wind was the wrath of a bigger force. No, we won’t go there. Goodbye!

  Sunday 11 September 2016, 107 Miles

  An Ugley and Nasty Ride (C#39)

  Today was a rather special ride for several reasons. First and foremost, I would be riding with Michael, Nick and Stuart. We first rode together just over twelve months ago on our Lejog adventure. Together with Andrew, Geoff and Vince we formed a septet and rode together for most of the 1,000 miles from Land’s End to John O’Groats, sharing the pain and the pleasure along the way. Since then, six of us met up in the Lake District in May and we will be riding together again next month on the Tour of the Pyrenees. Stuart has crossed over to the dark side and has been focusing on running this year, so our septet has been reduced to a sextet. But as he lives in Haverhill, the start point for today’s ride, he had decided to ride with us and it was a pleasure to catch up with him again. Stuart has also achieved a certain notoriety for his cycling kit, and earned the nickname ‘Poison Frog’. He didn’t disappoint us today! Michael refers to us as ‘The Elites’ and there has been lots of banter about who is in Elite A and who is in Elite B. The distinction is based on our hill-climbing performances – or lack of.

  The route which I had planned for today took in some new riding territory for me as we headed west into Hertfordshire. That added interest to the route. I had also worked out that we would be riding in four counties (Suffolk, Essex, Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire), which is a rare opportunity on a circular ride. Also, we would be visiting a couple of intriguing places which had caught my eye a while back whilst surfing the Interweb.

  So we all gathered in Haverhill at Nick’s house and were quickly ready to set off. In a bid to get the jump on us and become the first and only member of Elite A+, Michael had ridden across from Ipswich and intended to ride back afterwards, so that would add another 80 miles to his total for the day! The rest of us just rolled our eyes skywards. We were soon out of Haverhill before turning west at Finchingfield. We had a minor navigational moment at Great Sampford where the route I had plotted went down a rough track which the other three followed. Not willing to risk a puncture, I stuck to the tarmac and we were soon reunited.

  From there we sped across to Newport, turning south to ride parallel to the M11 before crossing under it to arrive at Ugley Green. Although it’s a rather nondescript place, the name had fascinated me so I wanted to get a photo of the village sign for the collection. There’s also an adjacent hamlet of Ugley (without the green) which is even more nondescript and doesn’t appear to have a village sign, but does boast a pub, amusingly named The Beautiful Ugley Chequers! And just to avoid any misunderstanding, some post-ride research on the Interweb told me that the name ‘Ugley’ is derived from Old English, meaning ‘the woodland clearing of a man named Ugga’. So there you go!

  We carried on westwards through some lovely gently rolling countryside under warming sunshine, heading towards the next point of interest. After a game of chicken to get across the busy A10 dual carriageway we arrived at Great Munden and turned up a small lane to reach the hamlet of Nasty. It’s a sleepy little place and not actually that Nasty. But I bet the locals get a tad fed up with people like u
s turning up to get the photo by the village sign. And readers, in the interests of authenticity, Nasty is derived from the Anglo-Saxon æt þǽm éastan hæge, meaning ‘at the eastern hedged enclosure’.

  Leaving Nasty behind us, we then headed towards the edge of Stevenage and the most westerly point of the ride. By now we were keen to stop for a drink, and after a couple of false starts we reached the Rising Sun at Halls Green where it was coffees all round. The sight of us in somewhat sweaty Lycra prompted one of the staff to insist that we entered by the back door and not through the restaurant. There was a large outdoor beer garden so we relocated ourselves there to slurp our coffees without causing too much upset to the other patrons. I did notice that we received a lot of surreptitious glances from the people around us. Some were along the lines of ‘What nasty people those cyclists are’ (if only they knew), as well as a few envious ones from people who would possibly much rather be out keeping fit than indulging in the massive Sunday roasts on offer.

  Suitably refreshed we set off again, heading into the rolling chalk countryside. Passing Cromer Windmill I managed to persuade Stuart to stop and take a photo of me posing in front of it. Apparently this is the only surviving windmill in Hertfordshire. A windmill has stood on the site for over 800 years. The present one was built in 1860 after its predecessor was blown over. A windmill that has blown over seems like a contradiction to me. From there we carried on eastwards enjoying the ride in rather warm and welcome sunshine.

  Approaching the M11 near Saffron Walden I was riding with Michael while Nick and Stuart were a bit off the back. Suddenly we were confronted by a horrendous sight. Another rider was approaching us in a virtually identical Poison Frog outfit to Stuart’s! Michael, who has clearly studied these things, informed me that this was the male plumage; Stuart’s was the female version (the orange arm bands being the distinguishing mark). Well, we kept pedalling onwards, not wishing to see if a consensual act would occur. When they eventually caught us up, Nick let slip that Stuart had indeed got quite excited!

  After a quick pause in Saffron Walden to get some water we headed off for Haverhill and the end of the ride. With one last rise, which Nick called a hill, we were soon in Linton and virtually at the end of the ride. Well, except for Michael who had another 40 miles to go to reach Ipswich. This was a truly memorable day out with good friends, and I was chuffed that they had ridden on one of my century rides. I’m looking forward to our next outing – in Spain. Hasta la próxima vez.

  Wednesday 14 September 2016, 110 Miles

  A Tour of the Broads (C#40)

  My recent ride to Beccles (C#35, 1 September) sparked a thought or three. How about a ride round the Broads themselves? I’ve ridden in parts of the Broads several times but I’ve never done a ride that was entirely in them. I thought I could plot out a route, and hey presto, a ride would unfold. Simples.

  Wherever possible I like to ride on minor roads or B-roads, avoiding A-roads which tend to be busier – except in the more distant extremes of East Anglia. The Broads are formed around several rivers which flow generally eastwards into the North Sea at Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft. The area is very low-lying, with some parts below sea level. As I started to plot the route I quickly discovered that the major challenge, if I was going to stick to those quieter roads, would be finding places to cross the rivers. After a bit of trial and error ‒ well, actually, quite a lot of errors ‒ I had the makings of a route. Routing up the coast was easy; once I got inland amongst the Broads I was going to have to weave around a fair bit to find those crossings and achieve the necessary 100 miles. Eventually I had a route plotted and loaded onto my Garmin.

  Setting off from Beccles, the first challenge was to find the start of the route as I had parked a little distance away. (Note to self: next time, program the Garmin to start and finish in the car park!) After a couple of wrong turns I eventually escaped from the clutches of Beccles and was heading south-east under hazy skies and light winds with the prospect of a hot day developing. I was soon into the edge of the Broads, which I could sense more than I could see. Then I was into the centre of Lowestoft with my first sight of the sea.

  Unlike the last time I rode here on a stage of the Tour of Britain in September 2012, when I had a full police escort creating a rolling road closure, today was rather different. I had to share the road with other users. Pah! As there was quite a lot of traffic I opted to keep off the A12 between Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth, instead going slightly inland and staying on quieter roads.

  From Great Yarmouth I continued up the coast but didn’t actually see the sea. I resisted the temptation to head down any of several lanes signposted ‘To the Beach’. Inland, the terrain was pancake flat and I could see occasional views of the Broads with their distinctive grazing and flood meadows. And in one or two places, according to my Garmin, I went below sea level! I soon arrived at Sea Palling where I turned inland to get right amongst the Broads. I stopped at a very busy Horning to get a photo of a typical Broads view before crossing the River Bure at Wroxham and heading south-east to my next goal, Reedham.

  Reedham is unusual in the Broads as it has a ferry crossing over the River Yare, so I didn’t want to miss out on that. It’s a chain ferry which can carry three cars at a time (or many more bikes). There’s been a ferry crossing here since the early seventeenth century and it is the only river crossing between Norwich and Great Yarmouth, shaving 30 miles off the journey. So I paid my £1 and enjoyed the short ride.

  From Reedham, with a brief stop at Loddon to get some water at the same shop I visited a couple of weeks ago (C#35, 1 September), I then rode along the southern side of the Yare valley back towards Norwich to load up the mileage. Turning south-east again I should have had a relatively uneventful ride back to Beccles. I say ‘should have had’ but it wasn’t quite like that.

  First, and in an attempt to avoid going back into Loddon and riding the same roads again, I thought I had plotted quite a crafty route to the south. Well, perhaps it was a bit too crafty. Let me say that a pleasantly smooth tarmac road gradually deteriorated and became bumpy tarmac road with grass growing down the middle, which after a couple of miles led to a stony, gravelly, brambly track for about a quarter of a mile. This was what some cycling commentators call a ‘technical section’. Fortunately, with a bit of walking and bike-carrying round the brambles, I got to the other side unscathed. Apart from the risk of falling off, my main concern was avoiding a puncture; changing a tube in the heat of the afternoon sun would not have been fun.

  Anyway, with the technical section behind me I was soon back in the groove and riding at a reasonable pace again. I arrived at the busy A143 which I needed to cross. Whilst I was waiting a white van arrived on the other side, signalling that it was going to turn right. Now on the basis that: (a) I was there first; (b) had the right of way as I was the one crossing straight over and not turning; and (c) critically the white van driver had nodded, smiled and I’m fairly sure beckoned me to cross, I figured that I was good to go. Fortunately, I kept my eyes on the van driver, trying to hold eye contact, because she suddenly came forward, forcing me to take extreme evasive action, before she stopped again with a loud squeal of her tyres. Luckily, I managed to stay upright, avoiding physical contact, and was even able to share my knowledge of certain highly descriptive Anglo-Saxon terms. To which I can report that eye contact was most definitely not returned. The irony was that the white van had the NHS logo on it; had physical contact been made, this would have been interesting at the very least.

  So unbattered and unbruised, I headed off back to Beccles, and I can report that the final few miles were unremarkable in every respect.

  Thursday 15 September 2016, 105 Miles

  No Particular Place to Go (C#41)

  For most of my rides I follow a pre-planned route, or a route that I’ve ridden before. I have several standard routes that I ride quite regularly. And this has certainly been the case with my cen
tury rides. Today I broke the habit, and instead of following a planned route I decided to ride a completely random one. I set off and made it up as I went along, trying to ride on roads that I haven’t visited for a while. And it all seemed to work out quite well.

  Normally I also write a bit about the route and the ride, interspersed with anything else that takes my fancy for a little. Well, again I’m going to be different, and the only thing that I’ll say about today’s ride is that in my quest for a photo I stopped at Old Buckenham to capture some amusing Norfolk dialect. Here a local worthy has erected a couple of unofficial replica road signs. One reads: ‘Cor Blast Yew R Goin Too Fast’.

  When I’m riding, apart from either looking at the scenery or other road users, I tend to do a lot of thinking. Much of this is random stuff that you wouldn’t want to know about. But today was perhaps a little different, so at the risk of inflicting a stream of consciousness on you, I’m going to share some of these thoughts.

  Listening to the radio at breakfast I’d heard that some Russian hackers had got into World AntiDoping Agency’s (WADA) computer files and helped themselves to the medical records of several athletes, including Sir Wiggins and the Froomedog. This set me thinking about cycling dopers (which don’t include the aforementioned riders). Inevitably, I landed on Lance Armstrong and then thought that life was too short to spend it pontificating about cheats like him. So just let me say that when he finally fessed up in front of Oprah Winfrey I felt incredibly let down and betrayed, both as a keen cyclist and as a follower of the professional sport.